


bound to the ground (by the loneliest sound)

by objectlesson



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: First Time, Frottage, M/M, Magic Revealed, Magical Bondage, Overstimulation, Pining, Soft Cock Sucking, Yes again
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-04
Updated: 2021-01-04
Packaged: 2021-03-14 14:02:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28546800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/objectlesson/pseuds/objectlesson
Summary: Perhaps the only sensation more compelling than Merlin relenting and softening beneath him like melting butteris the sensation ofknowingthat it was an act.
Relationships: Merlin/Arthur Pendragon (Merlin)
Comments: 28
Kudos: 285





	bound to the ground (by the loneliest sound)

**Author's Note:**

> Liv sent the prompt "play wrestling" and somehow this was what came out?? anyway I love the so much It makes me sick. More magical bondage for all you magical bondage fans. Also, there's no tag for soft cock sucking and truly that is a TRAVESTy! soft cock rights! They are better and cuter that way!

Arthur doesn’t really know what to _do_ with the realization that Merlin has been literally _faking_ his weakness for ten entire years. That every time they ever play-fought or wrestled and he went limp and panting under Arthur’s triumphant weight, it was all a fucking _ruse._

There are, of course, many more important things about his magic Arthur is processing. This is only one of countless sticking points, but he finds it surfacing in his mind more often than the life-saving or the old-man disguise, or anything else, really, if he thinks about it. This is likely because he’s used to tackling Merlin several times a day for the simple joy of feeling his tiny wrists crushed in his palms like bird bones, the narrowness of his waist trapped between his own knees, and _now_ , he’s having to reconsider how much of that, if any, was real. 

Perhaps the only sensation more compelling than Merlin relenting and softening beneath him like melting butteris the sensation of _knowing_ that it was an act. That if they _truly_ fought, Merlin would be the one to win, in all likelihood. Arthur finds himself thinking about this thrilling truth constantly in his sick-bed, staring up at the canopy as Merlin waits on him and tends to the battle wounds that nearly killed him. He stares at his slight body and imagines what it must have been like for Merlin to silence his own power, his own instincts for so long, just to let Arthur topple him over and sit on him and gloat. It makes his stomach very hot and tight, as all things unfathomable about Merlin do. So, As soon as his injuries heal and he is back in working order, Arthur makes a request. 

“I want to fight,” he says casually one night over dinner without looking up, as he pushes peas around his plate with a fork. “With no pretense. Just, your skills against my skills. Fair. ” 

Merlin spits out his mouthful of food. “What? Like. With magic? Arthur, you’d die. I’d kill you in one second,” he says easily, gesturing with his goblet of wine before wincing and tacking on a hasty, “sorry,” like he thinks he must protect Arthur’s _pride,_ of all things. 

Arthur frowns, trying to ignore the way heat zips up his spine before settling low and hot and hungry in his gut. “Not a _real_ fight, don’t be stupid. Just. How we used to, when I’d jump on you and you made it feel _terribly_ easy even though you were clearly just doing it for my benefit.” 

Merlin's face blanches a bit, and he sucks the inside of his cheek, hollowing it out. Like always, Arthur imagines pressing a lingering kiss there. It is urges like those that make him feel the need to wrestle Merlin in the first place--he needs to put his hunger _somewhere._ Otherwise it will fucking kill him.Kill them both, even. _“_ Alright _._ So, you want me to use my magic, next time you do that?” Merlin clarifies, eyes narrowed beneath arched brows. 

Arthur nods, deciding that _is_ what he’s asking for, stripped down to its barest core. An even match, nothing hidden or feigned. Just him, and Merlin. He holds out a hand, and they shake on it. 

—

He is not accounting for _anything_ that follows when it actually _happens,_ though. They are on a ride together in the woods early one morning, because Arthur could not focus on editing the speeches Merlin wrote for him the night prior but he didn’t want to go anywhere _alone,_ so. Merlin went with him, as he always does. His shadow, his compass. 

They stop at a stream to let the horses drink, and Merlin cups his pale hands in the crystal clear snowmelt to let it pool there, morning sunlight reflecting off the black of his hair and _fuck,_ these are the sorts of things Arthur cannot endure, _will not endure,_ so without a second thought he slams his body into Merlin’s as they crouch together, knocking him over so the fistful of water goes everywhere, glittering in the sun. 

Merlin’s eyes flash pale blue as they grapple there for a moment, giddy and blind and grinning until they both seem to remember the hand shake, some days ago. Arthur swallows, face sobering as he studies Merlin, his grip weakening, and then he nods ever so slightly, to remind him. To give permission. 

Then he braces himself for the touch of magic, but when it happens, it is not a shock: it is something he’s felt before, distant and familiar all at once, like a childhood memory. 

And of _course_ he knows it— Merlin has used it to save him one hundred times. It’s a haunting flickering warmth, tightening around his wrists with an indescribable and terrifying strength, and before he even realizes it Merlin is scrambling out from under him and easily tossing him a few feet away, so he lands on his back and skids through a pile of half-rotten leaves. 

Then, Merlin is on top of him, perched light and easy on his hips, something golden holding his body motionless, and so suddenly, Arthur can’t fucking breathe. So suddenly _,_ Arthur is breathless and hard and wanting, so much so it has him gasping, his cock throbbing as he throws his head back, to reflexively shudder and buck. There is blood on his lips, he thinks, but he cannot remember how it got there though he can taste it, copper sweet as he licks his mouth. “Arthur,” Merlin murmurs, palms spread on the heave of his chest, the pantomime of holding him down even though it’s his _magic_ that’s actually overpowered him into submission. “Told you I’d win.” 

Arthur shifts his hips, and the way they slot together pushes the hard line of his erection up against Merlin’s thigh. He witnesses the recognition flicker across his eyes as he blinks, stunned. “Sorry,” Merlin says then, like he _knows_ its his _fault_ for being so fucking perfect and ineffable.

He moves to get up, the magic slackening around Arthur’s wrists a bit and _no,_ no. Arthur goes a little mad, hips lurching in the air. “Please, for the love of _god_ Merlin do _not_ let me go,” he begs, teeth grit, cheeks hot, mind a rage of sea-foam and snow-skies and other messy white things. “ _Please.”_

Merlin stares, and he’s so beautiful Arthur thinks he could come like this—Merlin’s deceitfully slight weight on his lap, his magic spreading him out and rendering all the years-trained for strength in his body powerless. But then, the heat of magic cuts off the circulation to Arthur’s hands, making them tingle. He cries out, back arching. 

Without a word, Merlin’s mouth is all over him. His throat, his collar bones, wet and hungry and desperate, one hand cupping his cock through his trousers and rubbing it. “ _Arthur,”_ he says again, breath a hot cascade against his pulse before it’s over his _mouth,_ and then they are kissing, like kissing is a fight. 

It is very unfair that Merlin gets to touch him and he does not get to touch back, at the same time it is the sole thought steadily driving Arthur closer to the brink or orgasm. His hands are numb, and all he can give Merlin is his mouth, sucking at his tongue, biting at his lips, moaning into him as Merlin spreads his thighs and holds him pinned and fucks against him, clothing bunching fitfully between the frantic drag of their bodies. Eventually Merlin curses, undoes Arthur’s trouser laces and shoves his hand in. The _second_ he curls his fingers around the burning length of his cock and tugs once he shoots off with a sob, body trembling like something coming apart into irretrievable fragments. 

Merlin does not stop touching Arthur even after the shuddering aftershocks fade, his cock sensitive and wrung out and soft in his palm. He doesn’t seem to care. He works Arthur over, tugging his foreskin up over the crown, rubbing his come into his pubic hair, making Arthur whimper and cry out in overwhelm. The magic holds him fast, so he cannot push Merlin away, though he’s not certain he _would_ even given the chance. It feels _good_ to be pushed well past the point of his physical capabilities. It feels _good_ to hurt, coveted, helpless. Eventually Merlin reels back to peel his trousers down over his hips and put his _mouth_ on him, moaning as he licks Arthur’s come up, fitting his mouth over his soft cock and sucking until he spills over his own fist and into the dead leaves beneath them. Only _then_ does he let him go. 

Arthur flexes his fingers, wincing as they come back to life. “Ah,” is all he can say for a few minutes as he catches his breath. “Fuck.” 

When Merlin kisses him, he tastes bitter with come, and it makes Arthur’s stomach plunge filthily. He realizes too late that he can _touch_ Merlin now, and so even though his hands are clumsy and prickling with pins and needles he cups that impossible face between them, drags him down, lays him out in the dirt and smooths fingers over his throat, his chest, his ribs. Every bit of him is a miracle, thin and bony and so _weak,_ like Arthur could crush him. Except he _couldn’t._ Merlin is far stronger than Arthur has ever imagined, and the knowledge makes him dizzy, hungry, tremulous in overwhelm.

Because he’s always _known,_ really. That under everything, there was something _about_ Merlin. Something he wanted, but could not understand. Something that could destroy him, but wouldn’t. “I’ve loved you since the moment you tried to pick a fight with me,” he admits, pressing his face into Merlin’s hair and inhaling him, covering the thunder of his heart with his still-numb hand. “You were so _small_ and so _poor_ and you just—you walked right up to me and called me an ass. You said I had no idea what you were capable of. And you were right.” 

His laugh is a sweet fragile thing, tear-wet in the hollow of Arthur’s throat. “I really _could_ have taken you apart in less than one blow,” Merlin murmurs, sweeping his thumb over Arthur’s lower lip before sucking it into his mouth, eyes fluttering closed, lashes clotted in salt and wet. “And just to be perfectly clear-- didn’t fall in love with _you_ until two…maybe three days later I suppose.” 

“Oh really?!” Arthur jokes, looping his arms around Merlin’s waist and capsizing them both, dumping Merlin on his side in the dirt and trapping him there with his leg. It’s thrilling, to know how temporary that is, how _easily_ Merlin could magically escape his hold and imprison him once again. “You have always been stronger than I have, then.” 

“Mmhm,” Merlin agrees, hiding his face in the ditch of Arthur’s neck, where it belongs. Arthur holds him there, does not let him go. “Glad you finally know so.” 

And Arthur is glad, too. 


End file.
